(That's how my British day planner spells it. ;-))
So, when I was growing up in my Good Evangelical Household, Halloween was from the Devil. It was the holiday in which Satan was worshipped and cats were sacrificed in the bayous. In fact, when I was in high school the local Christian music station decided it was going to enlist cars to drive in loops around the city while praying to protect us from the devil's work in Halloween and a Marilyn (sp?) Manson concert.
It was fabulous.
So, anyway, I kind of have a chip on my shoulder about Halloween. I am Determined that, for me, Halloween will now be a Fun and Wholesome experience, no longer tinged by guilt or Satanic overtones. I went to a Halloween party and dressed up. I got candy to give out to the little kids. I even carved The Most Adorable Jack-o-lantern Ever. (Don't tell my mother, she'll think I've joined a Satanic cult.) My roommate and I (the sane one) had a great time handing out candy to the trick-or-treaters, admiring all the costumes, wanting to steal the babies, and desperately searching the house for more candy to give to demanding adolescent boys when we ran out. (We finally found two suckers and told them to split them among a group of about six boys. It was pretty funny. We managed to keep a snickers and a kit-kat for ourselves. ;-))
On the other hand, a part of me is still a wee bit sympathetic towards the anti-Halloween people. Down the street there are two houses that went All Out as far as decorations. Both have set out graveyards, monsters, and, tonight, homemade haunted houses. However, the part I find really disturbing is this: in addition to the fake dismembered heads stuck randomly around the yard, one of the houses has a man hung from the eaves. The noose is tight, the body is limp, the head is drooping, and a small trickle of blood runs from the neck.
Alright, here's the thing. Remember that scene at the beginning of Braveheart when little William Wallace walks into the barn-thing and finds all the men hung from the rafters? Remember how frightening and disturbing that was the first time you saw it, and how frightening and disturbing you thought that must have been for little William? Well, the thing is, that's Supposed to be frightening and disturbing. Such a display of suicide or human- inflicted brutality Should be horrific, because both of those things are so terrible. But when it's something on the house of the Guy-Down-the-Street, the sight simply brings a thrill of fear and rebellion.
So please stop robbing the little kids of their God-given right to feel horror at something that should never take place.
(And I bet the people next door would really appreciate it too, because even in Southern California with the 'hot real estate market,' those poor people can't seem to manage to sell their house. ;-))
After all, people, you're just inciting Christian radio stations to perform weird, slightly cultish rituals anyway. ;-)
Monday, October 31, 2005
Sunday, October 30, 2005
Socialization
So, I went to a party tonight, like a good little girl.
Parties are soooo not my thing. To be precise, they scare the living crap out of me. So for me to go tonight . . . well, I was proud. And I even dressed-up. And I even danced (after being physically dragged onto the dance floor). I could tell you the horrible and humiliating history of my entire social life, but I'm in too good of a mood to debase myself right now, so we'll save that for another time. Instead, I'll tell you about my evening.
So, obviously, it was a Halloween party, given by people at school. I went over to a classmate's house this afternoon, and we got dressed together. She dressed as '70s girl,' and with her long, lithe figure and mini skirt, she looked Fantastic, like some sort of Austin Powers-esque Sex Goddess. (not that I've ever seen Austin Powers, but never mind.) I'm not quite so long and lithe. I did not have a mini skirt. I did not know that the theme of girls' costumes for the evening was Sex Goddess. Instead, I dressed as Emma from the novel by Jane Austen. A poor choice, really, as I'm currently feeling more like Anne Elliot from Persuasion, but never mind. I curled my naturally stick-like hair into tiny ringlets, and wore a beautiful Regency era dress made especially for me. I looked for all the world like Lizzy Bennet in the BBC's Pride and Prejudice, but alas I could not be Lizzy without my Mr. Darcy. You see, Late Boyfriend and I used to go as Lizzy and Mr. Darcy. He even bought the full Regency-era costume one time as a present to surprise me! (When I mentioned that to my roommate, she stopped washing dishes, looked at me with admiration, and said "What a guy." I couldn't agree more.) We were adorable. I could not be Lizzy tonight.
I actually had a good time at the party, even though I was forced to dance and was not a Sex Goddess. But I think one of the most poignant moments of the evening was watching my friend the Sex Goddess interact with her boyfriend. They were chatting with someone, but I was watching them from behind and I could see his hand making gentle strokes down the small of her back. I miss that hand! I miss that feeling of reassurance that someone is right there, someone literally 'has my back,' someone is watching out for me in love. How I long for that hand! That gentle touch of "it's ok, you can do it, I'm here!"
There's no need to be a Sex Goddess, when you have that hand.
Parties are soooo not my thing. To be precise, they scare the living crap out of me. So for me to go tonight . . . well, I was proud. And I even dressed-up. And I even danced (after being physically dragged onto the dance floor). I could tell you the horrible and humiliating history of my entire social life, but I'm in too good of a mood to debase myself right now, so we'll save that for another time. Instead, I'll tell you about my evening.
So, obviously, it was a Halloween party, given by people at school. I went over to a classmate's house this afternoon, and we got dressed together. She dressed as '70s girl,' and with her long, lithe figure and mini skirt, she looked Fantastic, like some sort of Austin Powers-esque Sex Goddess. (not that I've ever seen Austin Powers, but never mind.) I'm not quite so long and lithe. I did not have a mini skirt. I did not know that the theme of girls' costumes for the evening was Sex Goddess. Instead, I dressed as Emma from the novel by Jane Austen. A poor choice, really, as I'm currently feeling more like Anne Elliot from Persuasion, but never mind. I curled my naturally stick-like hair into tiny ringlets, and wore a beautiful Regency era dress made especially for me. I looked for all the world like Lizzy Bennet in the BBC's Pride and Prejudice, but alas I could not be Lizzy without my Mr. Darcy. You see, Late Boyfriend and I used to go as Lizzy and Mr. Darcy. He even bought the full Regency-era costume one time as a present to surprise me! (When I mentioned that to my roommate, she stopped washing dishes, looked at me with admiration, and said "What a guy." I couldn't agree more.) We were adorable. I could not be Lizzy tonight.
I actually had a good time at the party, even though I was forced to dance and was not a Sex Goddess. But I think one of the most poignant moments of the evening was watching my friend the Sex Goddess interact with her boyfriend. They were chatting with someone, but I was watching them from behind and I could see his hand making gentle strokes down the small of her back. I miss that hand! I miss that feeling of reassurance that someone is right there, someone literally 'has my back,' someone is watching out for me in love. How I long for that hand! That gentle touch of "it's ok, you can do it, I'm here!"
There's no need to be a Sex Goddess, when you have that hand.
Tuesday, October 25, 2005
Damaged Goods
Didactic therapy is not for the faint of heart.
It was a teary one today. In fact, it was a teary weekend as well. My high school English teacher said all creation involves pain, and while I'm not sure about theological correctness of that statement, I know it's certainly true in my life. It's painful to try and grow into a healthier, less neurotic person. A person who can call the phone company all by herself, without fear of rejection. You may laugh, but from where I'm sitting, that'll be the day.
Today, we talked about one particular memory of my mother. I could not have been older than six. I am standing in front of the mirror in the horrid, 80s beige bathroom. My mother is brushing my hair, roughly; she never liked doing my hair. I think she was brushing it back into a ponytail when she spoke. I remember, even then, that her words seemed to come totally out of the blue to me. It did not follow from what she had just said, nor did it flow with what came after. "Sweetie, do your ears bother you? Because, you know, they stick out, but when you're older, a doctor can do an operation to make them look right. It's not a big thing, just a little snip."
I don't wear my hair in ponytails now, unless I absolutely have to.
You know, that operation may not be a big thing. It probably only requires local anesthesia. But, my gosh, having defective ears has been a big thing, requiring a lot more than local anesthesia. It's required self-starvation, panic attacks, and binge eating, among other things. But that still doesn't really numb the pain. Now, when I check the mirror, I have to check how visible my ears are. Pictures of myself are rated on a.) how not-fat I look, and b.) how my ears are doing. I hated getting my hair put up for dances, and so most of the pictures I have from formal occasions are inadmissible for framing because my ears are in the way.
Mama, why can you not accept my ears? Why do you still bring up the subject of plastic surgery every time I come home for a visit? Is it because they're just too grotesque to remain in your presence? Is it because I get my horrid ears from Daddy's side, and your so bitter towards him about everything else that this just adds fuel to the fire?
Is it because I will never, ever be good enough for you, and my ears are just a symbol of that fact?
It was a teary one today. In fact, it was a teary weekend as well. My high school English teacher said all creation involves pain, and while I'm not sure about theological correctness of that statement, I know it's certainly true in my life. It's painful to try and grow into a healthier, less neurotic person. A person who can call the phone company all by herself, without fear of rejection. You may laugh, but from where I'm sitting, that'll be the day.
Today, we talked about one particular memory of my mother. I could not have been older than six. I am standing in front of the mirror in the horrid, 80s beige bathroom. My mother is brushing my hair, roughly; she never liked doing my hair. I think she was brushing it back into a ponytail when she spoke. I remember, even then, that her words seemed to come totally out of the blue to me. It did not follow from what she had just said, nor did it flow with what came after. "Sweetie, do your ears bother you? Because, you know, they stick out, but when you're older, a doctor can do an operation to make them look right. It's not a big thing, just a little snip."
I don't wear my hair in ponytails now, unless I absolutely have to.
You know, that operation may not be a big thing. It probably only requires local anesthesia. But, my gosh, having defective ears has been a big thing, requiring a lot more than local anesthesia. It's required self-starvation, panic attacks, and binge eating, among other things. But that still doesn't really numb the pain. Now, when I check the mirror, I have to check how visible my ears are. Pictures of myself are rated on a.) how not-fat I look, and b.) how my ears are doing. I hated getting my hair put up for dances, and so most of the pictures I have from formal occasions are inadmissible for framing because my ears are in the way.
Mama, why can you not accept my ears? Why do you still bring up the subject of plastic surgery every time I come home for a visit? Is it because they're just too grotesque to remain in your presence? Is it because I get my horrid ears from Daddy's side, and your so bitter towards him about everything else that this just adds fuel to the fire?
Is it because I will never, ever be good enough for you, and my ears are just a symbol of that fact?
Sunday, October 23, 2005
No, I'm not Catholic. (Really.)
No, I'm not Catholic. Really. I may on occasion attend daily mass at St. Gregory the Great's Catholic Parish, where Father What's-His-Name, age 75+, says mass on Wednesday's, and sings "Ain't Got Time to Die" with more gusto than should be legal for a priest age 75+. I may attend an Anglican church called Blessed Sacrament that uses more incense than the Vatican. I may even (gasp) not believe all Catholics are going to Hell. But, no, I'm not a Catholic.
However, the Catholic-bashing has got to stop.
Yes, I know, I attend the leading Evangelical University in America (sort of). Yes, I know, according to the Protestant view, there are some problems with Catholic theology. But really? I expected more of you. I expected better.
Especially you, Acquintance of mine. You seem to see so clearly some of the problems of Evangelicalism. Yet you persist in making disparaging comments about a faith tradition I have a feeling you know little to nothing about. We talk about guilt and you say, "I shouldn't have this much guilt, my gosh, that's for Catholics!" Repeatedly. I mention the length of Catholic weddings and you say, "Yup, Catholics and Jehovah's Witnesses both," in the Tone of Judgment, as tho Catholics and Jehovah's Witnesses deserve the same cult status, both for their beliefs and the length of their wedding ceremonies. I begin to drive in the direction of the Catholic church to get to your house and you say, "Ooops, watch out, there'll be Weird Catholic church traffic." Those Weird Catholics. Darn them for worshipping God! How could they?
I suppose these comments may not seem that negative. Perhaps I'm just reading my own issues into them. But if you could hear the tone of sneering suspicion that accompanies these remarks, I think you might agree with me.
No, I'm not Catholic. (Really.) But some of the people nearest and dearest to my heart are. And you know what? I not only love and admire them, I love and respect their faith. So don't think you can denigrate them anymore. I've had enough, thank you.
However, the Catholic-bashing has got to stop.
Yes, I know, I attend the leading Evangelical University in America (sort of). Yes, I know, according to the Protestant view, there are some problems with Catholic theology. But really? I expected more of you. I expected better.
Especially you, Acquintance of mine. You seem to see so clearly some of the problems of Evangelicalism. Yet you persist in making disparaging comments about a faith tradition I have a feeling you know little to nothing about. We talk about guilt and you say, "I shouldn't have this much guilt, my gosh, that's for Catholics!" Repeatedly. I mention the length of Catholic weddings and you say, "Yup, Catholics and Jehovah's Witnesses both," in the Tone of Judgment, as tho Catholics and Jehovah's Witnesses deserve the same cult status, both for their beliefs and the length of their wedding ceremonies. I begin to drive in the direction of the Catholic church to get to your house and you say, "Ooops, watch out, there'll be Weird Catholic church traffic." Those Weird Catholics. Darn them for worshipping God! How could they?
I suppose these comments may not seem that negative. Perhaps I'm just reading my own issues into them. But if you could hear the tone of sneering suspicion that accompanies these remarks, I think you might agree with me.
No, I'm not Catholic. (Really.) But some of the people nearest and dearest to my heart are. And you know what? I not only love and admire them, I love and respect their faith. So don't think you can denigrate them anymore. I've had enough, thank you.
Thursday, October 20, 2005
A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words
I miss him tonight.
I miss the way we used to laugh, I miss our jokes, I miss our passion.
I saw this TV show tonight, a murder-mystery type-thing, which revolved around a strip of pictures a couple had had done together. You know those little photo-booth things that they have at subways and movie theaters and stuff? Like those. (Why is it that couples always feel compelled to take them? Well, except for the fact that they're funny and adorable and sweet and a concrete visual image of us as an Us.) I still have ours. They're adorable. I'm sadisitically looking at them right now, in fact. The first Christmas we were together, I blew one of them up and framed it, one for me, and one for him. I hope he still has his. The one I framed is not my favorite one, tho. My favorite one is the last one. I'm smiling demurely at the camera, while he's holding on from behind and kissing me on the cheek. My face is sweet and innocent, but my fist is in the picture, the only picture with a fist, and I'm clenching it for dear life. I don't remember whether the kiss was 'planned' or not, but knowing him, I bet it wasn't. I like to think it wasn't. He liked to surprise me, with anything. And I was clenching my fist for dear life because the touch of his lips on my face was still new to me then, still magical. Actually, I think it was always magical.
We look so happy in those pictures. The last one, in particular, is a picture of a girl with a joyous secret. She has his love, and no one else does, and she's not telling anyone . . . but her happiness is sparkling out of her eyes.
Where did that girl go?
What happened to us?
I miss the way we used to laugh, I miss our jokes, I miss our passion.
I saw this TV show tonight, a murder-mystery type-thing, which revolved around a strip of pictures a couple had had done together. You know those little photo-booth things that they have at subways and movie theaters and stuff? Like those. (Why is it that couples always feel compelled to take them? Well, except for the fact that they're funny and adorable and sweet and a concrete visual image of us as an Us.) I still have ours. They're adorable. I'm sadisitically looking at them right now, in fact. The first Christmas we were together, I blew one of them up and framed it, one for me, and one for him. I hope he still has his. The one I framed is not my favorite one, tho. My favorite one is the last one. I'm smiling demurely at the camera, while he's holding on from behind and kissing me on the cheek. My face is sweet and innocent, but my fist is in the picture, the only picture with a fist, and I'm clenching it for dear life. I don't remember whether the kiss was 'planned' or not, but knowing him, I bet it wasn't. I like to think it wasn't. He liked to surprise me, with anything. And I was clenching my fist for dear life because the touch of his lips on my face was still new to me then, still magical. Actually, I think it was always magical.
We look so happy in those pictures. The last one, in particular, is a picture of a girl with a joyous secret. She has his love, and no one else does, and she's not telling anyone . . . but her happiness is sparkling out of her eyes.
Where did that girl go?
What happened to us?
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly
The Good:
They're building a Chick-fil-a near my didactic therapitst's!!! This means that every week, after I drag myself there to drag out the inner crap of my soul, I can go to Chick-fil-a and get a Large Diet Lemonade, and make my life livable. For the unintitiated, Chick-fil-A is the In 'n' Out of the South. Only better. (Similar in quality, not in type of fair served. Chick-fil-a is Chicken Only.) Because it serves the best chicken nuggets in the USA, and the best lemonade EVER. Mega Peach-Bowl advertisement every December. Closed on Sundays. Crazy Cow commercials. Chick-fil-a rocks.
The Bad:
I live in Southern California. Please, oh Please!, don't hate me, native SoCalians, but . . . it's bad. (And it's also ugly). I mean, where else in America can you buy a tiny '60s era house that's Growing Mold inside of it and has redneck neighbors with an RV up on cinderblocks in their front yard, for $500,000+? Where else is Cheap Vodka on special at Albertson's for $9.99?? I mean, kids! At least in Texas you have to endure the Walk of Shame and go to the Cheap Liquor store to get such things which, lemme tell you!, will make you re-think your purchase! Traffic, schmaffic. I can deal with that. But these other things? The little things? That's what gets me.
The Ugly:
Well, you see, the ugly is easy. The ugly is me. I know, I know, I know. I'm not supposed to say things like that about myself. I'm not supposed to speak badly about me for any number of reasons. But let's look at the facts. The facts are: I'm 50 pounds over weight. 50 pounds!! That's, like, a kid! My ears stick out and are completely asymmetrical. My collar bones are drowning in fat. I have an icky mole on my back. Of course, that stuff's not really ugly. Undesirable, yes, but not really ugly. But you know what's ugly? A girl who shoves so much food down her throat in a vain attempt to smother her feelings that she wakes up in the morning too sick to get out of bed. A girl who does this every weekend, to be precise. A girl who has fantasies about slogging around in her own excrement and then grabbing some and smearing her face with shit. Yes, that's ugly. And don't try to tell me it's not.
They're building a Chick-fil-a near my didactic therapitst's!!! This means that every week, after I drag myself there to drag out the inner crap of my soul, I can go to Chick-fil-a and get a Large Diet Lemonade, and make my life livable. For the unintitiated, Chick-fil-A is the In 'n' Out of the South. Only better. (Similar in quality, not in type of fair served. Chick-fil-a is Chicken Only.) Because it serves the best chicken nuggets in the USA, and the best lemonade EVER. Mega Peach-Bowl advertisement every December. Closed on Sundays. Crazy Cow commercials. Chick-fil-a rocks.
The Bad:
I live in Southern California. Please, oh Please!, don't hate me, native SoCalians, but . . . it's bad. (And it's also ugly). I mean, where else in America can you buy a tiny '60s era house that's Growing Mold inside of it and has redneck neighbors with an RV up on cinderblocks in their front yard, for $500,000+? Where else is Cheap Vodka on special at Albertson's for $9.99?? I mean, kids! At least in Texas you have to endure the Walk of Shame and go to the Cheap Liquor store to get such things which, lemme tell you!, will make you re-think your purchase! Traffic, schmaffic. I can deal with that. But these other things? The little things? That's what gets me.
The Ugly:
Well, you see, the ugly is easy. The ugly is me. I know, I know, I know. I'm not supposed to say things like that about myself. I'm not supposed to speak badly about me for any number of reasons. But let's look at the facts. The facts are: I'm 50 pounds over weight. 50 pounds!! That's, like, a kid! My ears stick out and are completely asymmetrical. My collar bones are drowning in fat. I have an icky mole on my back. Of course, that stuff's not really ugly. Undesirable, yes, but not really ugly. But you know what's ugly? A girl who shoves so much food down her throat in a vain attempt to smother her feelings that she wakes up in the morning too sick to get out of bed. A girl who does this every weekend, to be precise. A girl who has fantasies about slogging around in her own excrement and then grabbing some and smearing her face with shit. Yes, that's ugly. And don't try to tell me it's not.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
On the Couch
So, I went to see my Didactic Therapist for our first 'real' session today. Before I go any further, let me explain. As a clinical psychology student, my school requires that I attend a minimun of a year and a half of individual psychotherapy. Which is great, because then I can pretend the only reason I'm in therapy is because I have to be. ;-) Anyway, back the first real session. So, I don't know about you, (all of my many readers, all of the still more who took lots of undergrad psychology,) but in undergrad psych classes I was told that no one actually psycho-analyzes anymore. As in, people may call themselves psycho-analysts and may even follow in the tradition of Freud, but no one actually does therapy the way Freud did. Well, all ye benighted psych students, I am here to tell you differently. Today I plopped down on the couch and, despite initial misunderstandings, was told to free-associate. As in, just say whatever comes into my head. No questions, no prompts, just say whatever you want, and take it wherever it takes you. My analyst (I'm not sure if therapist is the right word) kindly assured me, however, taht I won't have to lay down on the couch 'until I'm ready.' Fabulous. Before you know it, all I'm goign to be able to think about is having sex with my dad. Ummm, can I just say, Ewww? Ewwwwwww.
Admittedly, though, I think this method may have some positives. For the first time in my therapeutic life, I had to think Really Hard while I was at therapy. She didn't give me anything. Instead, it was I who analyzed my thoughts and behavior and I who interpretted my childhood. We already have a working symbol of my growing-up years, so I guess that's progress, right? Anyway, I hope this works. I hate changing therapists, it's the worst. But I think it will, if I can ever get over the fact that I will probably eventually have to say 'penis' in her office.
Admittedly, though, I think this method may have some positives. For the first time in my
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Coupons
On Sunday, I clipped coupons. It was the most fun I've had in a long time.
I got to go home to Texas this past weekend, to see my friends from undergrad (altho not my family, they live in a different city). I was a bit nervous going back, not sure how it was going to be. I've been a bit estranged from one of them for a while, in fact, and Roommate and I were staying with her in her apartment, so I wasn't sure how that was going to work out. Even beyond that, though, were more basic fears I always have when seeing someone I haven't seen in a while: Will I have changed, will they have changed, will they noticed I've gained weight (as usual), will they look different, will we still have anything in common, will there still be that connection? I need not have worried. If there's one thing my friends have shown me throughout these last few months, it's that they are my friends, and will be my friends, through thick and thin. In my struggles, they have truly shown their mettle.
But coupons.
Friend Michael, boyfriend of Roommate and my very good friend, made us a gorgeous after-church breakfast, complete with special-recipe coffee served from cast-off China cups. Afterwards, Roommate picked up the op/ed section of the paper, while Friend Michael thumbed through ads. You must understand that my Texas friends are pretty much all Catholic, very staunch, very devout, very conservative. Sometimes I want to kill them, but I love them anyway. So, when Roommate found an entire section regarding a rumored Vatican document addressing homosexuality in seminaries, the conversation went something like this:
R: So there's rumored to be a new Vatican document coming out soon saying that men with same-sex attractions will no longer be allowed in seminaries.
Me: Really??
FM: Do you want a coupon for Glade Plug-ins?
R: Yup, some people are really mad about it-
Me: Do you want biscuits dearie?
R: They say - what? ummm, yeah, biscuits - that it's discrimination because lustful thoughts of homosexual men aren't anymore sinful than lustful thoughts of heterosexual men.
Me: Yeah, that seems a little extreme to me, I mean, both homosexual and heterosexual men are going to have to deal with sexual issues if their entering a life of celibacy.
FM: How about Softsoap?
R: What do you think?
Me: Mmmm, yeah, I'll take Softsoap. Palmolive, darling?
R: What? Oh, no, you keep it. Of course the proponents are saying it will reduce homosexual enclaves in seminaries. FM, what do you think?
Me: Yeah, I'm kind of with them there, I mean, living with all those men they're attracted to it just seems like you're setting up the poor people for sin. What about brownie mix?
FM: You girls need feminine products?
Me: Ooooh, yes, good brand. Cover your ears, FM, but I can't stand the tampons with the blunt ends, they hurt.
R: You can't go cheap on pads, either, it's the worst. By the way, you use Dove deodorant, don't you darling? Michael, what do you think!?!?
FM: Well, I guess I don't see homosexual and heterosexual love as all that different. I mean, it's like what I did my thesis on in Plato: the Greeks had it wrong, all love is desire. And I should desire men just as I desire women, there are just different limits on those relationships. -Now, do you want a Tyson meat-kit thing, it's $1.50 off?
You know, it's not everyday you have a conversation that features Plato, feminine products, and money-saving tips. Or rather, it is everyday, if you have friends as glorious as mine. Alas, it is not everyday that I get to be with them. But then, it is not everyone that is this lucky, to experience such dorkiness and such love, all in the space of one half-hour.
I got to go home to Texas this past weekend, to see my friends from undergrad (altho not my family, they live in a different city). I was a bit nervous going back, not sure how it was going to be. I've been a bit estranged from one of them for a while, in fact, and Roommate and I were staying with her in her apartment, so I wasn't sure how that was going to work out. Even beyond that, though, were more basic fears I always have when seeing someone I haven't seen in a while: Will I have changed, will they have changed, will they noticed I've gained weight (as usual), will they look different, will we still have anything in common, will there still be that connection? I need not have worried. If there's one thing my friends have shown me throughout these last few months, it's that they are my friends, and will be my friends, through thick and thin. In my struggles, they have truly shown their mettle.
But coupons.
Friend Michael, boyfriend of Roommate and my very good friend, made us a gorgeous after-church breakfast, complete with special-recipe coffee served from cast-off China cups. Afterwards, Roommate picked up the op/ed section of the paper, while Friend Michael thumbed through ads. You must understand that my Texas friends are pretty much all Catholic, very staunch, very devout, very conservative. Sometimes I want to kill them, but I love them anyway. So, when Roommate found an entire section regarding a rumored Vatican document addressing homosexuality in seminaries, the conversation went something like this:
R: So there's rumored to be a new Vatican document coming out soon saying that men with same-sex attractions will no longer be allowed in seminaries.
Me: Really??
FM: Do you want a coupon for Glade Plug-ins?
R: Yup, some people are really mad about it-
Me: Do you want biscuits dearie?
R: They say - what? ummm, yeah, biscuits - that it's discrimination because lustful thoughts of homosexual men aren't anymore sinful than lustful thoughts of heterosexual men.
Me: Yeah, that seems a little extreme to me, I mean, both homosexual and heterosexual men are going to have to deal with sexual issues if their entering a life of celibacy.
FM: How about Softsoap?
R: What do you think?
Me: Mmmm, yeah, I'll take Softsoap. Palmolive, darling?
R: What? Oh, no, you keep it. Of course the proponents are saying it will reduce homosexual enclaves in seminaries. FM, what do you think?
Me: Yeah, I'm kind of with them there, I mean, living with all those men they're attracted to it just seems like you're setting up the poor people for sin. What about brownie mix?
FM: You girls need feminine products?
Me: Ooooh, yes, good brand. Cover your ears, FM, but I can't stand the tampons with the blunt ends, they hurt.
R: You can't go cheap on pads, either, it's the worst. By the way, you use Dove deodorant, don't you darling? Michael, what do you think!?!?
FM: Well, I guess I don't see homosexual and heterosexual love as all that different. I mean, it's like what I did my thesis on in Plato: the Greeks had it wrong, all love is desire. And I should desire men just as I desire women, there are just different limits on those relationships. -Now, do you want a Tyson meat-kit thing, it's $1.50 off?
You know, it's not everyday you have a conversation that features Plato, feminine products, and money-saving tips. Or rather, it is everyday, if you have friends as glorious as mine. Alas, it is not everyday that I get to be with them. But then, it is not everyone that is this lucky, to experience such dorkiness and such love, all in the space of one half-hour.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
